Gift of the Stars
by RowanGF
Summary: Vignettes telling the story of Elanna of the Elves, lover to Gandalf the Grey, during the War of the Rings, before her passage into the West. LOTR movieverse, enriched with both the book and the Silmarillion. Romance, angst, and action. Rated R for sex a
1. Return to Imladris

Part One: Return to Imladris

Elanna selected several pine needles and held them tightly against the coil of their fellows in her lap, wrapping them with a strip of reed that had been soaked until it was soft and flexible enough to thread onto her needle. The basket was growing slowly, delicately, under her fingers, each layer no thicker than the pine needles she'd collected from the forest surrounding the elven haven of Imladris. She concentrated on the basket, taking solace in the even rhythm of her weaving, hoping it would liberate her mind from the feeling of dread that had overtaken it.

They had had word: the Dark Riders were abroad. Elrond had sent scouts into the woods, up and down the Bruinen River. They returned, shaking their heads, and set out again in fruitless pursuit.

Dark visions haunted her daily routines, stole the breath from her singing, and soured the wine in her cup. She might have pounded them out of her skull at the forge where she fashioned cups for Lord Elrond's table and bee-sting tips for elvish arrows. But the visions were of fire and swords in the deep bowels of the earth, and the pursuit that usually would have brought her relief from care only intensified it.

Erestor jogged up to her, feet silent on the thick humus covering the forest floor around the bench she sat on with her craft. His face, usually impassive, was grimacing with apprehension, bringing her to her feet.

"Elanna," he said, "Lord Elrond bids you come quickly. Glorfindel has returned from his patrol, with Mithrandir over his saddle. He found him in the forest, badly injured."

Her heart jumped. Concern for the wizard's well-being was at the core of her discontent.

The steward added, "He flew here on the back of a great eagle."

She dumped her basket on the bench, upsetting the bowl of soaking reeds, and hurried ahead of Erestor back to the House of Elrond. She knew where the wizard would be. The House was a sprawling dwelling cut into the valley and merging with the trees, the inner rooms reserved for guests who, unlike the elves, were likely to be affected by the elements and therefore preferred to have four walls surrounding them. Mithrandir visited often enough in his wanderings to have acquired a small inner room of his own where he might store the odd ancient book or artifact collected across the centuries.

He was there, on his back, insensate across the bed, with Elrond leaning over him. Glorfindel stood at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed, frowning down. Like her, he was one of the older lords among the elves, and it showed in his shining face. When he saw her, he put his hand out to stay her a moment. She stopped and he moved his arm up into a supportive embrace around her shoulders.

"Where did you find him?" she asked.

"Not thirty yards from the gate," Glorfindel answered, grimly. "He was unconscious. He awoke for a moment when I lifted him onto my horse. He said the eagle had brought him from Isengard."

"Isengard?" Her breath caught. "Is it possible that Sauron has attacked Saruman the Wise?" A bleak silence met her question.

Elrond glanced over his shoulder at her, his mouth set in a frown; then he rose and waved in the elf lingering in the doorway with a bowl of water, rags, and a box of unguents under her arm. She brought them forward, but Elanna took them before Elrond could, setting them beside Mithrandir and carefully kneeling down to examine him herself.

"He's dehydrated," Elrond said. "And starving, obviously suffering from exposure. Several ribs have cracked, but they have not punctured his lungs. He has suffered a concussion, but enough days ago that the swelling has already subsided. There are other bruises and contusions, as if he was attacked by a squadron armed with clubs."

"It would have to be many indeed to so harm him." She dipped the corner of a clean rag in the bowl of water and dribbled droplets between the wizard's cracked lips. His mouth twitched. When the drops were gone, she gave him a little more. His face was dirty. Dried blood crusted in his eyebrows and hair where her probing fingers found the blow just described. "He smells like smoke and death."

His cloak lay across a chair, and his robe had been opened to examine his injuries. Elanna gazed at his aged and beloved face, delicately touching his cheek amid the cloud of his beard. "Help me get the rest of this off him."

Glorfindel stooped and scooped the wizard up easily so Elanna could manipulate his clothing to draw it off as painlessly as possible. Mithrandir groaned but did not awaken.

"Thank you, Glorfindel," she whispered as he set him down again.

He nodded and raised an eyebrow of inquiry to Lord Elrond. Receiving a silent shake of the head in reply, he took it as a polite dismissal and left with Erestor.

Elanna continued to wash the blood and dirt from the wizard's body, slowly, wringing her rag frequently until the bowl swirled brown and Elrond called for another. He watched her tender labour with concern for Mithrandir, for they counseled together with a trust and openness that could scarce be found elsewhere in these dangerous times.

"I'll not interrupt your ministrations," Elrond said, taking his leave once the clean water had arrived. "He will recover well. Let the grace of Imladris speed his healing."

"It shall be so." She would allow no other alternative.

He hesitated in the doorway. "Summon me as soon as he wakes, and if he says anything, even babbling, let me know."

"I will, my lord."

"This…does not bode well," he added.

"I shall not leave his side."

Left alone, she slowly washed and anointed the wizard's body, her fingers tracing gentle paths across his familiar skin. The unease that had dwelt within her was unrelieved by his safe return to Imladris. He had been battered and broken before. The scars of a warrior graced his arms and torso, usually hidden from all but a few. But something dark lingered on him this time, a stench that she could not wash away. When she was finished tending his wounds, she pulled a blanket over him and eased herself alongside his body, laying her head near his so that the gold of her hair caressed him. She closed her eyes and waited for him to awaken.


	2. Breath Before the Plunge

Part Two: The Breath Before the Plunge

Boromir, first born son of the Steward of Gondor, captain of his father's army, and protector of his people, glanced around the table at the others gathered for the feast. Elves on one side, dwarves on the other, and himself in a cluster of humans in the middle. He hunched his shoulders and drank from the silver goblet he'd been served with the offer that he take the cup with him when he left Rivendell. He couldn't help but feel it was also a suggestion that he not linger. But he had no intention of doing so, and the delay of a feast before they got to the business that had drawn them all there seemed to be so much foolishness.

At the head of the table sat Lord Elrond, and beside him, the wizard he knew as Incanus but whom everyone here called either Gandalf or Mithrandir. Boromir trusted neither one, but could not help respecting them. Nearby, among the ethereal nobility of Elrond's court, sat an elf woman that Boromir's eyes were repeatedly drawn to. She had golden hair that seemed alive with its own fire and a mouth of such infinite beauty the gods must have sculpted it to sing their own music. He disdained the elves for their superior airs, and yet he longed to kneel at her feet and receive the gift of her gaze.

The evening's festivities continued while he marked the minutes. Much of the remnants of food were taken away, though full plates were left before the dwarves and the curious creatures called hobbits that he'd at first taken for dwarf children. Space was cleared on the floor and the gentle wash of music that had accompanied their dinner turned to a sprightlier air, encouraging the guests to dance. Boromir drank and watched the elves bow and weave together. The hobbits were the next to give in to the sound and caper like the children he'd thought them. He found himself grinning and buried it in his cup. This was no journey for pleasure. The fate of his people hung in the balance.

His glance slid again to the elvish woman as she rose and put out her hand to the wizard who was puffing a pipe with satisfaction. He could not catch their exchange of words, though he wished he could hear, just once, the sound of her voice.

Across from him sat the ranger he'd encountered brooding in the dark, the night he arrived, the one who seemed so at home in Rivendell, though he was no elf. He claimed to be a friend to the elves and spoke their tongue. Boromir had largely ignored him through the meal, but now he caught his eye and directed his attention to the golden-haired woman.

"Who is she?" he asked.

"Ah." The ranger nodded as if he understood Boromir's interest. "She's called Elanna, the gift of the stars. She is one most honored by the Eldar."

Elanna had drawn Gandalf the Grey from his throne-like chair and led him to the center of the room among the dancers. He bowed to her and took her hand, holding it high to spin her around in a circle about him. Boromir thought it was kind of her to dance with the old wizard, though he was surprised at the sprightliness with which the wizard trod the floor. Joy spun from the lady's flashing feet. The swirl of her path brought her face to face with an elf lord with long golden hair like herself and the straight back of a warrior. He cut in to be her partner now and she grinned, making a circuit around him.

"Does she live here?" Boromir asked. "Or is she one of those that came with him." He jutted his chin toward the elf princeling that had arrived from the dark forests to the northeast.

"Yes, she has a permanent place in Elrond's House," the ranger replied. Then he smiled. "And her heart is taken."

Boromir snorted and pretended to drink again, though his cup was empty. The elf maiden in question threw back her head and laughed, a glittering sound that penetrated across the room to his ears and made his stomach flutter. He tried to sound disinterested as he asked, "And who has she fixed on?"

The ranger nodded at the dance floor. "Gandalf, of course."

Boromir gaped. "What interest could such an old piece of gristle hold for one so young and fair?"

The ranger laughed. "Be not deceived by appearances, Lord Boromir, for though Gandalf the Grey has stalked these lands for years far beyond mere men, Elanna is older still. She is one of the Noldor who lived in the green realm of Valinor before the breaking of the world and fought against Sauron at the side of Gil-galad."

Boromir did not understand the details of all the ranger had said, but he understood the meaning, and swallowed hard, looking with wider eyes at the golden head as it twirled past.


	3. Night Song

Part Three: Night Song

Gandalf retreated to his room before the feast had completely ended. Notes of plaintive chanting drifted in among the leaves and doorways from the hall below. He took off his outer robe and was hanging it over a chair back when he heard her whisper his name. He turned and saw her, a glow like the moon come to rest in the corridor.

Elanna entered and came to relax against him. In a heavier gown, he would have heard the hush of her movements, but in the thin silvery shift she'd put on for bed, she moved silently. More than silent, as if she absorbed sound the way her skin absorbed the moonlight and now seemed to glow softly. He could feel that skin, silk beneath silk, milk beneath milk, and felt the desire to nestle into it, to forget the evil that grew each day and threatened to hold him to this land even as the elves were leaving it.

She picked up his hand and caressed his knuckles. Where her fingers passed, a red ring shimmered into sight, simple and dusky, and dissolved again into invisibility. "Narya grows heavier, my love. It feels the One Ring drawing near. But even Narya and Vilya together will not be enough to preserve Imladris from the shadow rising in Mordor. This time and place is at an end."

His chest tightened and he flexed his fingers, feeling the weight of the hidden ring he bore. "Yes." He kissed her forehead, as she leaned into him, resting her head on the coarse fabric of his tunic. A breath brought him the spice of autumn leaves: incense caught in her hair. The stillness of night carried the murmur of water where the great river tumbled into the valley, split a hundred times into streams and pools, and regrouped farther on to twist across the rolling plains to the sea. His lips traced the pointed top of her ear. "The shadow rises, but not tonight at least. And tomorrow…"

She stiffened. "Tomorrow the Council meets. You pull back the bow and point the arrow. But do not, in your love for Men, choose its flight too hastily. I would not have you ride East out of Imladris."

He gave a frustrated huff. "Elanna--"

She gripped his clothes in tight fists. "You have held the gate against evil for centuries. Our time here is over. There are others to stand in the gap. They must come forward now of their own accord or no power in Middle Earth can rescue them."

He scowled. "This is-"

"Come away with me now to Valinor." Her eyes pleaded with him too.

He silenced her protestation with a kiss, lips lingering on hers until he found words less sharp. "I have no desire to leave you, and no need to prove myself in battle. But I cannot avoid my fate by hiding. This is my purpose in Middle Earth, as you well know. We are bound to the fate of this world, your kind and mine; we have not the gift of Men to pass into another existence."

She shifted in his arms, reaching up to entwine his grizzled hair in her fingers. Their years had been spent more apart than together, his face turned away from Imladris more often than toward it. Whether in the long nights in watchfulness with Aragorn or curled alone in a too small bed in the Shire, she was the i home /i he thought of when his mind turned to such things, and still…

"After all this time, you will not promise me anything?" she asked wistfully.

"I cannot promise you. As you cannot promise me: you are not known to hide from danger in your path. Your hand knows a sword as well as a pen." His hip nudged her. "Come to bed and lay this care aside for awhile."

"My sword is too heavy in my hand," she said. "I am tired of fighting. I just want to go home, but I shall not go without you."

"Evil is at the door. We both feel it. We must make the most of the time that's given us."

Tears shimmering in her eyes, she raised her mouth to his. After they kissed, he drew her to the bed. She shoved him down to sit and knelt to remove his boots herself, though she did so without further words. He observed her bowed head, the slope of her shoulders: there was a sadness about her that was unfamiliar. Pushing his hands off, she pulled his loose elvish trousers down and stripped them off his legs, her manner more business-like than sensual. She snapped the trousers and folded them over the robe on his chair.

Gandalf pursed his lips, his beard bristling. "Have I offended somehow?"

She sighed and sat on the bed with one leg curled beneath her. "No, not you. I am offended by the men of all races who can't content themselves with battling against floods and famine and fires but must lay waste to the land themselves, and tear countless lives asunder in their quest for power."

He took both her hands in his much larger ones. Looking into the depth of her ancient eyes, he said, "I'm sorry, my dearest lady. Perhaps if they were born with your power they would not feel such hunger."

She shrugged. "My power? What power is it that cannot keep those I love safe? You have power, greater than you show, and yet you have chosen to turn your will to good. Why do they not make the same choice? Why would Saruman…?" Her voice trailed off and she leaned over to rest a kiss on his right eyelid before something that might have been a tear splashed his cheek. He had come to grips with the awful betrayal of the leader of his order during the long days he was kept imprisoned at the top of Orthanc, but she, he knew, was still bitter.

He held her back, to gaze at her though she tried to look away. More tears were on her cheeks. "What have you seen?" he asked, shrewdly.

"Much." Darkness fluttered across her expression and she laid a hand on his cheek, surveying his face as if to memorize it. "Mithrandir…you have ever been my love.…Beware the mines of Moria. There is an evil there and the stench of Morgoth is still upon it." She faltered and bit her lip. "I dare not say more."

He opened his mouth to question her further but thought better of it. Doubt was not something he needed more of. Instead, he took her by the shoulders and lowered her down beside him across the bed. His lips found her throat. He peeled the shift back from her shoulders, down off the soft mounds of her breasts. Her hands were under his tunic, searching over his back, brushing over scars old and new. This body he wore was old, and plagued by the frailties of its human form. He too would welcome the day when he was recalled to Valinor, though he would regret leaving Middle Earth. With a rumble in his throat, he shifted down to take one of her nipples into his mouth, stroking his tongue over the tip of it, flicking lightly again and again before sucking it all the way in. He did the same to the other as she arched back, fingers caught up in his hair.

"Ah, my dear," he whispered into her skin. "Let me make you sing."


	4. Fall Into Darkess

Part Four: Fall Into Darkness

Elanna was ancient enough to no longer count time in mere days and yet she marked each sunset from the day the Fellowship left Imladris, marked them in the thick parchment pages of her journal, marked them with the emptiness of her work table where she usually had some craft at hand, marked them with the depth of her long memory.

She returned again and again to a map borrowed from Elrond's study, unrolling it across her bed and measuring the distance they might have traveled, if they went this route or that, through sunshine or rain-beleaguered days. She did not sleep but sometimes she dreamed, sitting by the rocky pools where the river bent and twisted; and her dreams were whipped by mountain winds, bitten by stone teeth. Immune to the cold or heat that might surround her, the dreams sent chills rippling across her back.

A word of reassurance from Mithrandir would have been welcome, but no word could be trusted not to endanger the messenger or the Fellowship's quest if by chance it was intercepted; and so she had only her dreams, her map, and her trust in his wisdom.

Glorfindel sat vigil with her, when he wasn't engaged in the stepped-up patrols of the woods and lands surrounding Imladris. She also passed the days by helping those of her people who were leaving to pack and make ready for their journey to the Grey Havens and beyond. Those younger than herself, and most were, sought her description of the city of Alqualonde that would greet them, and the wide green plain beyond the valley.

And so it was on the 21st day, as she closed the lid of a carefully packed trunk, its interior a honeycomb of tubes filled with scrolls and rolled painted canvases, that the Dark consumed her. Blackness covered her eyes in a waking dream, and sound was muffled as if by interminable distance. She could see nothing. Fear pounded in her heart, made her belly liquid. The stench of fire and ash surrounded her and she felt as if she was falling. She threw her hands out to catch herself but they could find no purchase. Falling, falling, she could find no voice to shout, no spark of light to catch hold of.

Thus Glorfindel found her, sprawled on the floor, eyes open but unseeing, mouth wide in a silent scream.

"Glorfindel, tell me again what it was like to go to the Halls of Waiting," Elanna said softly, rolling a goblet between her palms that was filled with red wine, I _his /I _ favorite wine.

They sat together, two ancient Noldor, in the Hall of Fire, a good place to think, and for him, to mend a broken stirrup. She had spent a great deal of time there since word had come from Lothlorien, confirming what her heart already knew: Mithrandir had fallen at the bridge of Khazad-dum, just as she'd foreseen.

A small fire flickered on the hearth, the snap and crackle of it the only sound. It's illumination was scarce more than the misty glow that emanated from their skin.

The elf warrior paused before answering her. "It's a difficult question to answer. There was the balrog, that I remember in every detail, and then…stars--I suppose they were stars--but they were alive. They could have been the Ainur; they were so beautiful. And then I was at peace, a green peace. I…slept…I think that is what it was, from what I have seen of Men doing it. There were no dreams." He shrugged, the broken stirrup forgotten in his lap. "I don't know how much time passed; it seemed I had always been there, and yet I opened my eyes too soon. I saw the stars again, far away in the black of night. I was lying naked alone on the mountainside, near where I'd fought the balrog."

"But why?" she asked intensely, gripping the goblet. "Why you?"

"I do not know. I used to wonder, but I no longer expect to ever know. It is as it is." He reached over and placed his hand on her arm. "But you can't pin your hopes on it happening again. He is gone."

"But he is not one of us, or one of any other race of Middle Earth; he has--had--a mission here. Surely it is incomplete."

"I wish I could give you hope," he said softly. "But I think you would be better off without such falsehood."

The wind sighed through the arches of the windows, fluttering the full sweep of her gown and making the fire gutter. It brought the scent of autumn leaves as they curled inward on themselves and fell from the trees.

Gently, Glorfindel removed the goblet from her grasp to set it on the hearth. She noticed that she had unwittingly bent it out of shape, the bowl compressed into an oval. He got up and stood before her, taking her hands in his and stroking the backs of them with his thumbs. "What I can give you is comfort," he said.

Elanna pulled her hands away, withdrawing them into wide sleeves. "I'm sorry, Glorfindel. My grief is too new. For now, I dwell in memories."

"May you find comfort there then," he said. He withdrew himself and sat back down. "For myself, I shall make ready to ride with the next caravan to the Grey Havens. I would be honored to accompany you, if you will ride with me."

"Not yet. Though I long to return home, I sense there is yet something undone."

He shook his head. "Mithrandir is gone. You must accept it."

"I will stay awhile."

Silently, he picked up his stirrup and finished repairing it. Taking up the bit of worn and split leather he'd replaced, he tossed it into the fire. It twisted and writhed before flaring up along its length. Soon all that was left was ash.


	5. Flame of the West

Part Five: The Flame of the West

Light shimmered along the length of the newly-reforged sword as Elrond held it up before him, checking for imperfections with keen eyes. But there were none. Elanna was certain of it, for her race of elves, though cursed and almost extinct, were the greatest of all at such crafts.

"It is beautifully made," he said as last, shoving it home into its scabbard. They stood in a gazebo at the end of a long stair where she had brought it to him fresh from the forge, wrapped in silk. Her hair was pulled back out of hazard's way in a single braid and the smear of smoke was on her forehead.

"I have been bold enough to name it Anduril, the flame of the West," she said. "It's the last I shall ever make; let it be the greatest." The muscles in her jaw tightened. "I confess, I give it over to you with effort; I would keep it for myself."

Elrond looked at her shrewdly. "The sword belongs to Isildur's heir."

"If Aragorn were not Isildur's heir, I would not give it to any Man until I had plunged it through Sauron's body myself. May he wield it to the Enemy's doom." The last came out heavy with the bitterness in her heart, the empty days since Mithrandir's fall growing the hatred in her heart.

Leaves fell around them and skittered at their feet, a sure sign that the power of the elves was failing. Elrond himself no longer bothered to dress in his finest robes, his hair unadorned, a Lord in retirement. He frowned and said, compassion in his voice, "I feel his loss too, Elanna. It's a loss for all the world."

"When you go into the West, it is to reunite with your love," she snapped. "Celebrian awaits you. What will I have when I get there?"

He started to answer, but she cut him off. "Don't say "Glorfindel", or any of those who've gone before, would any thousand of them replace one single person you love? Will they replace Arwen?"

He looked stricken and she regretted her words as he fixed composure on his face. Her pain had cut a gulf between them, one she didn't have the energy to span. Elanna bowed her head.

"I'll leave at dusk," he said. "I have word that the Rohirrim are massing at Dunharrow. Aragorn is likely to be among them. I'll go there first for I'm sure they will at least have word of him, and then I'll head wherever the trail leads. I'll have the sword to him at all speed."

Her head still bowed, Elanna said, "I want to go with you."

"A ship waits for you at the Grey Havens," he said.

"There will be others. I will make one last pilgrimage across this land, in the name of him whom I loved. Once I have seen the sword delivered, I'll go." She steeled herself to argue further. Though he was lord of Imladris and she abided in his home, she owed him allegiance out of respect only and was not bound to his command. Those she had pledged fealty to were long gone from the earth.

Elrond was silent a long while, weighing the tremendous length of the sword in his hands. "Very well," he said at last. "Arwen will be happier if I'm not alone, and I'll have better argument why she herself should not accompany me. Now that she--" his voice cracked. He paused and steadied himself. "Now that the grace of the Eldar has left her, I will not risk her life on this errand."

Waiting outside King Theoden's tent, Elanna wrapped her cloak more tightly around her armor-clad body. It was the same armor she had worn into battle with the Last Alliance of elves and men, at the end of the last age. Carefully repaired and preserved, a few precious strips of mithral lined the inside of the helmet, and an inlaid pattern of mithral stars protected her heart. Then she had led a company of archers, now she stood beside her horse, a solitary honor guard, counting the hosts of Rohirrim camped around and below her. Her sword hung at her side, a bow over her back, her elven ancestry matched her height to the Men of Rohan,: they regarded her with unease.

Their numbers were thin. Many of them already nursing injuries not quite healed. Grim faced, she tried to convince herself it was not her concern. They would stand against the forces of Mordor or they would fall, and she herself could not change that.

Aragorn approached, summoned by the king, and cocked his head at her as he passed to enter the tent. Though her features were hidden beneath her cloak and helmet, he had clearly recognized her. Aragorn, who had spent more time with Mithrandir than she. Aragorn who had burned his fingers at her forge, learning to mend a buckle. Aragorn, did the Riders of Rohan know their fate rested with him? In that moment she both resented him and gave praise he was who he was.

She was glad none approached her with welcome or fair words to ferret out her purpose. Her aloof dignity and danger was meant to keep them at bay, for her ears could hear what theirs could not: every word that passed inside the tent. She listened with great interest.

Aragorn received the sword as a son accepting the gift of his father. She was gratified by the awe in his voice and she closed her eyes against the fear she heard in both their voices for Arwen was dying. It pained her too, but she had enough of pain. The rustle of fabric brought the image of Elrond embracing Aragorn and she remembered the small boy so long ago that Elrond took into his house and his heart.

The vision grew before her eyes, pulling her backward in time to when she too had a full heart, when Mithrandir spent many a long afternoon with his head in her lap and night together under the stars. She drew in a shuddering breath and shook her head sharply. "Mithrandir." His names filled her mouth. "Mithrandir. Olorin. Incanus. Gandalf."

Suddenly she realized, she heard it in another voice. Aragorn, speaking barely above a whisper, had just said Gandalf had ridden to Minas Tirith and there awaited the arrival of the Rohirrim against a full-fledged attack from Mordor.

The sword sagged in her hand. Her face burned as if she had been unfaithful. And she had in giving up hope. She whipped around and stalked the few steps to the tent flap, shoving right between Theoden's guards as if they were mere wraiths. They tried to hold her back but inside Elrond and Aragorn were faster, putting hands to half-drawn swords as she barged in.

"Mithrandir, he's alive?" she demanded, flinging off her helmet. It bounced once and rolled across the furs laid down across the coarse grass.

Aragorn relaxed his grip on Anduril, understanding and compassion on his face. "He is. Though he passed from shadow into the light, he was returned to Middle Earth and is now Gandalf the White."

Tears started to Elanna's eyes. She felt as if the earth were tipping sideways below her feet. Aragorn came toward her, waving off the guards who had followed in her wake. He steadied her and said, low and calm, "Yes. I fought beside him at Helm's Deep, feasted with him in the halls of Edoras, and parted from him not three days since when he rode out to warn Minas Tirith of the Dark Lord's approach."

She pressed her fist against her mouth, to push down the sobs.

"I'm glad to give you this news, my lady. Know I rejoiced no less when we found him again," he said.

She turned from him, the weight of regret falling from her shoulders, like armor being shed. "Mithrandir lives!" She sought a chair and only dimly recognized that she helped herself to the throne of King Theoden. She realized she was breathing hard, as if her body were separate and distanced from her, observing but not quite feeling it. "Than if this can come to pass, there is still hope for the free people of this earth!"

Elrond met her eyes with tear-filled ones on his own. "I thought I brought hope; but instead I take it with me again."

Elanna laughed, relief tumbling over her. "Gandalf the White! Serves him right. He'll have to give up pipeweed now I expect."

Aragorn chuckled. "He is not changed as much as that."

Her laughter rang out, causing one of the guards to put a cautious head once more into the tent.

Elrond stooped to pick up her abandoned helmet. He caressed the dome of it thoughtfully. "Well, our task here is done. We return now to Imladris. I shall not see you again, my son, unless it be at the crowning of the King of Gondor returned."

Aragorn bowed deeply and long. Elrond gripped his shoulder and kissed the top of his head. "My love is with you," he whispered into Aragorn's ear. He straightened and held out the helmet towards Elanna. "We ride."

"No, my lord," she said, rising from the king's carven chair. "I'm staying with the Rohirrim. I go with them to Minas Tirith."

"Elanna, all hope aside, they ride to their death. You know this."

She shook her head, eyes glittering. "No, they ride to him I love. I will go and fight at Mithrandir's side. Together we shall travel either to Valinor or to the Halls of Waiting, if that be our fate. I ride to Minas Tirith."


	6. Servant of Aule

Part Six: Servant of Aulë

Elanna rode on the end near the front line of Rohirrim, a place she had chosen for her strength to protect their charge from the side and for her ability with a bow before they met their foe in close quarters. Her horse's ears twitched with anxiety though she was bred by the elves and held her place in the line. Elanna could hear it too, long before they breached the top of the final hill to see the Pelennor Fields that surrounded the white city of Minas Tirith, heard the sound of thousands, tens of thousands of feet, the chink of metal.

The city itself peeked over the top of the hill ahead like a huge white ship, its prow jutting out of the mountain. Now that she was this close, she knew the warmth blossoming in her chest could only be her nearness to Mithrandir at last. It finally confirmed what Aragorn's words could not: he was alive, and more powerful than ever. She had only to cross the plain to be at his side.

Suddenly, the hand of fear clutched her chest, and yet she was not afraid of the battle to come. She was of two minds, ready and determined, and awash with need, sure her doom was at hand. A vision fell and black swept past her gaze: one of the Nazgul. She realized it was not her own fear she felt but Mithrandir's. She gasped, knowing he was under attack, unwilling to lose him again. Could he feel her too?

"I'm coming!" she shouted, words lost among the stomp of hooves, the growl of battle already engaged on the other side of the hill. The riders near her paid her no heed, focused ahead, tightening the grip on their reins, sitting taller in the saddle. Her heart pounded. "I'm coming," she said again, preparing to bolt forward before the king sounded the charge.

_Sounded the charge. _She dug her heels in and broke with the line so that her horse cantered sidewise among squealing horses and men shouting at her. Rounding alongside one of the Rohirrim soldiers with a horn tucked under his arm, she grabbed hold of the horn and yanked it away. She put it to her lips and blew. The sound soared above the plain. The other trumpeters, confused by the premature call, quickly joined in, assuming the king must have given the signal. The sound heated the blood with the promise of death. Surely Mithrandir and all the hosts of the enemy had heard it.

The Rohirrim came over the crest. As far as Elanna could see, the land was black with orcs and men and the machines of war. She glanced down the line of Men and horses, and though she had seen the deaths of far more than these in her time, a tear ran down inside her helmet. She felt more than saw the riders pause a moment, and murmur in hushed shock. Now her focus was fixed on the towers of the white city.

Slowly, she drew her bow off her shoulder and an arrow from her quiver. Far afield , she picked out her first targets. In a haze, she heard the king of the Men she rode with gathering their courage and strengthening their resolve. He wheeled his horse galloping up and down the line of them and, as if at a distance, she heard them begin to chant, "Death! Death! Death!" While the Men worked themselves into a fever pitch, she wound down, her breathing and pulse slowed. She focused like a serpent preparing to strike.

King Theoden cried out for them to charge. Screaming the Rohirrim raced their mounts forward. Retreating into silence, she kept pace, the hiss of the arrows she let fly and the thunder of hooves beneath her the only sound. At every arrow an orc fell--three, four, five--clearing a path that she might charge right into their midst. Six, seven, eight. The other horses had reached the rear line of the enemy. Nine, ten, eleven. Her horse leapt over a pair of bodies. She abandoned her bow to draw her sword.

The battle fever gripped her, narrowing her focus even as it expanded her senses. She no longer thought of the Rohirrim, of Mithrandir, of herself. The black blood of the orcs stained her arms, making them slick to the elbows. She had acquired a second sword in her left hand from one of the fallen Uruk-hai.

Then came a sound that broke through the red haze of death that enveloped her. Elanna wheeled. Her horse reared back dangerously. Coming down upon the Rohirrim was a row of creatures she had only seen once before. "Mumakil" she knew they were called, dressed for battle, living war machines, and as they thundered forward they swept aside Men and horses, and even Orcs, like dandelions heads in a field. Catching her off guard, an orc swept a blade across her arm. It sheared downward along her vambrace, causing her to rock from the force of the blow but shearing off sidewise and not cutting in. She swung her sword backward and beheaded him. Immediately another closed in from the other side and she swung wide with the sword in her left hand, steering her horse away with her knees.

The mumakil had to be dealt with. She could feel the damage they did not just to bodies, but to the hearts of the Men who had now turned to face them. She charged her horse forward and they leapt high to clear the crumpled mass of a warg and rider. The horse came down and Elanna heard a sickening crunch. Her horse screamed and tumbled forward onto her knees, so that Elanna had to grab hold of her neck to keep from being thrown over the front of her. She rolled off, realizing in shock that her mount had not been felled by an arrow, blade, or spear, but by a hole in the ground. She had stepped into a rabbit hole, caving it inward, and broken her leg.

Orcs were closing in. In pity, and with a grunt at the force required, Elanna struck her horse's head from her body. Blood burst forth, washing her legs and feet. She ducked, dropping one of her swords, and caught hold of spear point jabbing the air where her own head had been. Jerking the spear free, she used the blunt end to rap the nose of the orc wielding it. He roared and stumbled, giving her time to spin the spear around and repeat the blow with the business end.

She yanked it free of his skull, still regretting the death of her horse, but it had given her an idea. She had to find a gap in the combat, somewhere she could concentrate. With the spear giving her a broader reach, she slowly cleared a space around her. Dropping down in the shelter of a dead troll, she squatted and spread her hands above the ground. Half-singing, half-shouting, she began waking the rocks below the soil.

The spell was ancient, the accent abandoned in Middle Earth ages ago. It also wasn't working. Frustrated, she glared at the black clouds overhead, the reek of Sauron blotting out the sun, blocking her magic. She called on Aulë's name, he who worked in the earth and steel, he who her race, the Noldor, had followed above all others before they left Valinor. Her spell grew. It was hot in her hands, and she bit her lip against the pain. When she could no longer withstand it, she planted her palms flat against the soil, releasing the power into it. The ground shook, as if it were a pond that had been disturbed by a dropped pebble, rings of trembling running outward from her.

A great crack opened in the earth in front of the nearest mumakil. The rocks subsided under its feet and it tumbled, much as her horse had, crunching forward, throwing its burden of archers to the ground. Elanna's bow was quicker than theirs as they tried to recover, picking them off in quick succession as the earth trembled with the deep screams of the injured oliphant.

She was about to try again--the earth should have opened wide enough to devour the mumaki--to bring down another of the beasts, even if Sauron's breath stripped her words of their strength, when a cold wind blew through her, sucking the breath from her lungs as it went. A green glow streamed past. She blinked. It took a second for her to realize that the skeletal forms of men she saw within it were real rather than a vision. The ghosts swept across the field of war, destroying all the Dark Lord's forces in their path, like ravening hounds falling upon a deer.

Elanna stood and watched, flicking a spot of gore from under her eye.


	7. Healing Arms

Part Seven: Healing Arms

Elanna slowly made her way toward what remained of the main gate of the city. Her path zig-zagged so that she might check on those who had fallen. Most were dead, but some few she found alive. Stanching blood, covering them with confiscated cloaks, she took what immediate care she could of them and used spears from which she hung tattered strips of cloth to mark where they lay so that they might more quickly be brought back to healers.

The city walls had been breached and as many bodies as lay upon the open field, there must be the same within. She did not think she would find Mithrandir soon, but it seemed as if her sense of him had grown, like a magnet pulling her inner compass toward him. A haze drifted over the plain and here and there the sun broke through the shreds of the black cloud that had covered the land.

A gleam of steel caught her eye, the tip of a sword peeking from under an Uruk-hai corpse. She put her heel against him and shoved, rolling him partly out of the way. She stooped and picked it up. Marking the runes etched on its length, the perfect weight of it, she knew it was elvish-made. There would be more treasures such as this, if one was only willing to delve among the spoils. It was a fine sword, better placed in the hands of Men. It would go well with the elven shield that she'd found and slung over her shoulder. She tucked it in her belt, alongside her scabbard. Her helmet hung from the chin strap at the small of her back, her gauntlets at the right. She had little room to carry any other scavengings.

Looking toward the gates, still many yards away, she saw the green swarm of spirits fade in a gust of wind, and wondered at their passing. Where did they go, the souls of Men? Then she saw a figure in white standing on the field. Her heart beat faster. She started to gallop, leaping over bodies of men and from top to top of the dead enemy. Her helmet bounced against her backside, the swords clanked, and leather creaked as she ran. "Mithrandir!" she shouted. The figure grew in her sights: white cape, hem filthy and spattered in black blood; white--not grey--hair, flying free of the leather band that held it. A sword was at his side, but he held no staff. Aragorn was with him.

She stopped twenty feet away. An exhausted smile flickered across Aragorn's face. He said something to the wizard, who turned.

"Mithrandir!" she said. She saw surprise, relief, and gratitude chase over his gruff features.

She walked slowly the rest of the way until she stood within an arm's length. She surveyed the lined face. His beard was much shorter and neatly trimmed, his stance though tired, shone with a vigor she had not seen before, as if he was lit from within like the Valar. But his eyes were the same, or if not the same, I more /I , more wise, more kind, and filled with her own reflection. She gazed at him. "It is a long journey I have taken to stand before you, yet it is not half so long as your own."

He shook his head. "Elanna." Spreading his arms wide he took her within the sweep of his cloak, holding her tightly and saying her name again and again.

Aragorn sat back and let his chin drop to his chest, closing his eyes, for just a moment in the grip of exhaustion. The parade of wounded through the Houses of Healing seemed endless and all, it seemed, were in need of his touch. A distant part of his mind rejoiced that there were so many injured rather than dead, for then, king or no, there would be nothing he could do. But the greater part of him could barely move and yet refused to give over to the selfish desire for sleep.

A weight pressed his shoulder and he raised his head. It was Gandalf, crouching down beside him, concern in his blue eyes. "Aragorn, you have done enough, it's time you looked to yourself."

He shook his head. "I will, but not yet."

"There are none left here on the brink of death. Eat, sleep. They'll still be here when you wake."

Aragorn grinned sardonically. "And will you sleep too, old friend? Or do you not heed your own counsel?"

"There is strength in me yet," said Gandalf.

Aragorn hung his head back, stretching, and caught, out of the corner of his eye, the glimmer of a golden head. It was the Lady Elanna, shed of her armor, bare-legged in a men's grey shift that fell to her knees. She stooped over a pallet, giving instructions, and then moved to the end of it to grasp the foot of a soldier who was still dressed in the tattered remnants of a uniform of Gondor. With a sudden jerk, she set the broken bone of his leg, bringing him up with a howl. He collapsed and she left him in the hands of two healers to move to the next bed.

Aragorn glanced at the wizard, who had also turned to watch. "Gandalf, I make a pledge to you: I will go sleep and eat, if you will go to her while there I _is /I _ still strength left in you. If you do not, I don't understand what we fight for."

Gandalf barked a laugh, but he pushed himself up to stand and said loudly, "What does an old man have to do to get some attention in this place?"

Naked, Elanna sunk her face in a basin and threw her head back, blowing out a lungful of air. The shift she had worn, she had given over to Gandalf so his bloody robes could be cleaned. Water drops spattered the stone top of the sideboard in the room he had claimed as his own. Part of the room's balcony had given way, and rubble was on the floor, but the remaining walls were sound, and the bed was large, if dusty. A red sliver of dawn was just visible on the horizon.

While Elanna washed, Gandalf rummaged in the sideboard itself and found a small bowl of apples and a hardened end of bread. He offered them to her while she blinked, dripping, at him, but she shook her head before drying her face on a towel.

"Orc blood is as foul as the creatures themselves," she said, muffled. "It stings my eyes. It's hard to believe they were ever elves."

"They fight like elves," he replied, carrying the bowl over to the bed and stretching out on it. He propped himself up on one elbow and selected the best of the apples. "Stronger than their appearance. Tenacious. Insensible to pain."

"Now that's where you're wrong. We feel pain. And we grow weary. And we regret." She moved the towel up to ruffle her damp hair. "Why did I ever spend so many years hibernating in Imladris while you wandered over the earth by yourself?"

He crunched into the apple. "Hardly by myself. There was Aragorn, and Bilbo, Glorfindel, and the children of Elrond, to name a few." Four more bites finished the apple off. He chose another.

"But never me."

"You sought Imladris for sanctuary. I understood that. And it's not like you haven't played your part. You taught Aragorn, comforted his mother, and sat among the White Council. Knowing you were there was like an anchor in the storm for me, whether facing orcs under the mountains or driving Sauron from the depths of Mirkwood." He pursed his lips, thoughtfully. "Yes. Even when I passed into the light, it was you that drew me back."

Elanna let the blanket fall and crawled across the bed, over the top of him, shoving the bowl aside. Her mouth met his, with the lingering taste of apple. She kissed his cheek, his closed eyelids, his large nose, as his arms surrounded her again, lifting and shifting her so that they were both more comfortable. His head was cradled against her cheek and he tilted it back to graze his teeth along her throat. He tugged on his long shirt, pulling it out of the way so that she was sitting skin on skin. His flesh was warm between her thighs. She rocked back and forth, slowly, as his hands roved over her back and bottom. With a sudden turn, taking both of them, he flipped them over so that he was on top of her, pushing upwards enough on his arms that she could stroke his chest.

"Your scars are gone," she said out loud as she came to the realization. Elves rarely bore such marks, any more than they bore the marks of age. Her fingers played across his skin: lean warrior arms and knotted shoulders. He was a wizard, but he swung a sword as often as a staff.

"Yes."

"It's truly wonderful," she whispered.

"I'm gratified you think so." His hair was a white curtain around his face.

"There have been finer beds than this," she whispered, "But never one so welcome. Where you go, I will go; where you fight, I will fight. Words seem of so little importance now, only action matters."

His knee spread her legs and she gave herself over to their passion.


	8. The Black Gate

Part Eight: The Black Gate

Elanna marched alongside the Men, again choosing a position on the outer edge near the front where her arrows could best find their mark. Aragorn had tried to give her a horse, but she refused. The horses that were left should go to the Men who would easily tire along the long march to Mordor. She could walk that far and farther without pause. Mithrandir often rode beside her, with the hobbit, Pippin, in front of him on Shadowfax, but he said little to either one of them, and for herself, she had few words to offer either. All words were spent.

At last they came to the scorched pan of earth before the Black Gate. The sky was grey and a foul stench rode the air. No bird rode the air, no insect buzzed. The metal doors rose upward like a wall of jagged teeth grinning in the line of stony cliffs. The companies, few though they were, lined up silently before them.

"For the last time then," Mithrandir muttered and rode forward to meet alongside Aragorn, the Rohirrim captain, and the others. They slowly paced their horses forward and Aragorn called to whomever or whatever lay within.

After a pause, there was the sound of rust giving way and the Black Gate creaked, ponderous on its hinges, to open a crack for a lone horse and rider. The rider appeared to bear no weapon and wore an iron cap draped in black silk, a caricature of that black crown that had born the Silmarils in the Ages before. Elanna's lips hardened into a thin line. She pulled an arrow from her quiver and knocked it. It was a good distance, but one she could make. Let no one think Aragorn's party rode defenseless to meet the enemy.

The tainted wind blew their words the wrong direction, yet her ears were keen. When the Mouth threw something silver and light as spiderweb at Gandalf, she knew what none of the Men around her could know: it was Bilbo's mithral shirt.

Frodo was dead. Elanna felt the pang of Mithrandir's devastation. She brought the bow up, pulled the string back to her ear--and Aragorn rode into her line of sight and with a single stroke of Anduril beheaded the enemy's foul servant. Her eyes narrowed with grim pleasure as the body slipped sidewise and fell. The Black Gate groaned, the grin opening wider to vomit forth hordes upon hordes of orcs. The earth shook with the rattle of their armor as they strode forward. The five riders fell back before them. Elanna watched the lines of Men backing up, if there had been anywhere to run she had no doubt some of them would have fled.

The open Gate revealed the black tower of Barad-dur in the distance. The Eye on its peak rolled and fixed on the small host come to stand against it.

"Hold your ground!" Aragorn shouted.

"Hold!" Elanna echoed, raising her bow again and stepping forward to encourage the Men back into position. If they panicked, they surely would all die.

Mithrandir slid the hobbit before him off of Shadowfax onto the ground, then dismounted. He whispered into the horse's ear, an offer that Shadowfax might return now to the wild fields of Rohan, but the stallion scraped the ground with his hoof and refused to leave. Aragorn rode before the Men, bringing them back to their courage. Elanna only half heard him, her eyes were on Mithrandir. And his, blue as the summer sky over Imladris, met hers.

"Where you go, I will go," she said. She was calm, ready to fall if that was her Fate.

He drew Glamdring and held it before him. "Tomorrow," he told her, "I shall make you sing."

They were surrounded by the army of Mordor. Black clouds blotted out the sun overhead and the glowing eye turned the sky bloody in the distance. Aragorn, now on foot as well, called the charge. Glamdring held to his shoulder, Mithrandir ran forward. Elanna let fly her first arrow and it found its mark in an orc's neck. By the time her quiver was half emptied, the hosts of Men had entirely overtaken her and she abandoned her bow to draw sword as well.

There was no knowing how many orcs she killed. No marking who survived and who had fallen. Mithrandir should have been easy to spot in his white robes but she dared not even give her attention to look for him. The taste of blood as in her mouth, poisoned and bitter and her ears were filled with screaming. She hacked and thrust, plunging herself into the forest of Sauron's army so deeply, she could not harm one of her own allies by mischance. If it moved, she killed it.

And yet, the orcs were unending, and in among them, far worse were trolls fevered by the smell of blood who tromped and smashed on all in their path whether friend or foe. On high, the fell riders swooped in and only the great eagles kept them at bay. She knew they were all lost: even if every Man still standing could fell an orc at every stroke, they would be overcome.

"Aule!" she shouted, commanding the ground to open up as it finally had on the Pelennor to swallow Sauron's forces. "It is I, Elanna, who charge thee to open! I who have beat and shaped the rock of this earth for all these Ages! I who sailed with Maedros out of Araman and left the host of my kin to the Helcaraxe, I who fought in the War of Wrath and laughed at the breaking of the world. I am more ruthless and I have cried more tears than thee! In the name of Aule, you must heed me!" she cried again in a voice that might compel the Valar himself to appear before her. But her words could find no purchase in the poisoned earth.

The spell had failed, and she had wasted too much energy and focus on it. A troll leaned in and swung its fist, catching Elanna off guard. She was swept off her feet and flew ten feet to crash on top of a trio of orcs. One had lost an arm and the weight of her staggered it, it fell over to bleed out its life. The remaining two took her to the ground and one punched her in the chest. Her sword was twisted under her. She brought up her feet and wrapped it around the orc to fling it over her head. The last one gored the earth a second after she moved her shoulder. Its second thrust was more lucky, as she rolled to recover her sword. The blade skidded between the scales of her armor and sliced along her side. Elanna thrust upward and gutted the orc who slumped forward onto her blade and onto her.

Under the body, she blinked at the sky. A scream of rage pierced the air. The clouds began swirling overhead, a bloody froth that chilled her heart. And then she felt it, a rumble deep in the earth, far away and growing larger. She shoved the orc off of her and struggled to her feet. A stillness had come over the field of battle. Looking away to the east, she saw the tower of Barad-dur shudder and crack. Her eyes widened. It was impossible. Frodo was dead. And yet with a squeal the Eye consumed itself in its own flames and--as she stared, mouth agape and panting--the tower crumbled.

The top burst, like glass shattering, and with it the silence burst as well. Cries of "Frodo!" spread across the field. A shuddering wave, like an earthquake in the fabric of the air itself, spread out from the powdered remains of the tower. It blasted against Elanna's face, scorching her cheeks, and striking terror in the orcs. They panicked and fled around her. At their heels, a gap appeared in the earth, ripping from the tower, through the Black Gate, consuming all in its path.

Standing tall among the dead, Elanna unbuckled her helmet with one hand and tossed it away. She would never need it again. The ground split sidewise, inhaling the gate, trolls, and seeming to run after the retreating orcs on either side of the men. Rock and stone tumbled away before her, the gorge running right up to her feet and stopping at her toes. She looked down into the endless pit and then over at the host of Aragorn who were left standing on a flat promontory of surviving rock. A figure in white stood among them.

Elanna laughed.


	9. The White Ship

Part Nine: The White Ship

The gulls fell back behind their ship, to wheel back to the shore. The prow glided through the water, kicking up foam along either side, and calling to the dolphins to ride the crest and dance in their wake. The lands of Middle-Earth were behind them and soon they would come to the place where the world had cracked and the ships of Men would be bent along its curve to pass on into the western seas. But the Elvish ships would continue straight until they reached the far shores of Valinor from which they could never return.

Gandalf declined the invitation to go below deck and play at chess to pass the time, and he was not alone, for many wanted to see the journey, however similar one wave was to the next, one cloud overhead giving over to another. After filling his pipe from the small pouch at his waist, Gandalf leaned down and adjusted a blanket over Bilbo's knees. The breeze coming off the waves was cooler than it had been on shore and the old hobbit was lying frail on Frodo's shoulder, his eyes closed in pleasure at the hushed elvish singing that raced the ship onward toward Valinor. Gandalf patted Frodo's shoulder and turned toward the prow.

Elanna was standing against the rail, her face turned into the wind and hair whipping backward in golden glory. Gandalf went to her side and she glance at him before resuming her study of the horizon, reaching up to brush her hair from her mouth.

He peered ahead of them at the open water and the endless sky. "Do you see Alqualonde yet?" he asked, a smile tugging at his lips.

"No. But soon we'll pass over the ruin of Numenor, sunk beneath the waves."

"I'm teasing you," he replied, putting his arm around her waist to pull her closer. "I'm eager to get there too." He said a word of making and the pipe in his other hand lit with a gentle flame. He drew breath through it, to get it going well, and gave a satisfied sigh. A good bowl in one hand and Elanna in the other, at that moment he could set all regret aside.

"I remember the light of the Two Trees," she mused aloud, "The way they made the air seem sweeter, the colors more rich. I remember making love under Telperion on a summer's evening with the birds singing overhead."

"I wish I knew you then."

"Then I was not who I am now. I was a child in mind and experience…" her voice trailed off as if suddenly lost in the halls of memory. She shook her head. "Well, we know each other now. And though the Trees are gone, it's there in the on the green mound of Valmar that I want to bear our child."

"Our child?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh yes," she put her hand low on her abdomen. "If you are willing. In this last year, I've been reminded how precious life is. I don't know what Iluvatar has sung for us at the end of all things, but I have faith again; and I return to Valinor not to retire from life, but to renew it. I would celebrate our tie to this world by giving another child unto it. The mingling of Mair and Eldar: who knows what she could accomplish?"

Gandalf had never considered having a child of his own, never thought of himself as a father to one, more than he acted as father to many. He sucked thoughtfully on his pipe, the wind stripping the smoke away before it could form. Not only were there barrels of pipeweed below deck, but there were green plants tucked into clay pots for the journey, waiting to be planted on that far plain where under Yavanna's hands, he knew they would flourish. All things flourished there. He humphed and gave another large puff of smoke. "A child? Well, then, why not?"


End file.
